He could not destroy the towers. Suppose a rocket came from Earth, impossible idea, but suppose it came tonight, tomorrow, next week? and landed on the other side of the planet, and used the phones to try to call Barton, only to find the circuits dead? Yes, imagine! Barton dropped his gun. “A rocket won’t come,” he argued, softly, logically with himself. “I’m old. It won’t come now. It’s too late.” But suppose it came, and you never knew, he thought. No, you’ve got to keep the lines open. Brrrrinnnng. * * * * * He turned dully. His eyes were blinking and not seeing. He shuffled back into the drugstore and fumbled with the receiver. “Hello?” A strange voice. “Please,” pleaded the old man, brokenly. “Don’t bother me.” “Who’s this, who’s there? Who is it? Where are you?” cried the voice, surprised. “Wait a minute.” The old man staggered. “This is Emil Barton, who’s that?” “This is Captain Leonard Rockwell, Earth Rocket 48. Just arrived from New York.” “No, no, no.” “Are you there, Mr. Barton?” “No, no, it can’t be, it just can’t.” “Where are you?” “You’re lying, it’s false!” The old man had to lean against the booth wall. His blue eyes were cold blind. “It’s you, Barton, making, making fun of me, lying to me again!” “This is Captain Rockwell, Rocket 48. Just landed in New Schenecty. Where are you?” “In Green Town,” he gasped. “That’s a thousand miles from you.” “Look, Barton, can you come here?” “What?” “We’ve repairs on our rocket. Exhausted from the flight. Can you come help?” “Yes, yes.” “We’re at the tarmac outside town. Can you rush by tomorrow?” “Yes, but--” “Well?” The old man petted the phone, pitifully. “How’s Earth? How’s New York? Is the war over? Who’s President now? What happened?” “Plenty of time for gossip when you arrive.” “Is everything fine?” “Fine.” “Thank God.” The old man listened to the far voice. “Are you sure you’re Captain Rockwell?” “Damn it, man!” “I’m sorry!” He hung up and ran. They were here, after many years, unbelievable, his own, who would take him back to Earth seas and skies and mountains. He started the car. He would drive all night. Could he do it? What of his heart--It would be worth a risk, to see people, to shake hands, to hear them near you. The car thundered in the hills. That voice. Captain Rockwell. It couldn’t be himself, forty years ago. He had never made a recording like that. Or had he? In one of his depressive fits, in a spell of drunken cynicism, hadn’t he once made a false tape of a false landing on Mars with a synthetic captain, an imaginary crew? He jerked his grey head, savagely. No. He was a suspicious fool. Now was no time to doubt. He must run under the moons of Mars, hour on hour. What a party they would have!